


Homecoming

by nogoaway



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Etymology, First Time, Hotel Sex, M/M, Military, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 00:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16587197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: This is no longer the last hurrah. This is going to follow him home, just like the anger and the mortars and the squeal of tires on the bridge.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is fan fiction about a TV show, not real people.  
> 2\. I apologize for any misuse of military terminology and my general ignorance of the culture.  
> 3\. This is the 'immediate post-canon hookup' fic that everyone already wrote for this pairing a decade ago, but I'm late to the party and can't help myself.

The knock comes from high up on the door, almost eye level. It's brisk and decided. The small, weak part of Nate that he's learned to ignore suggests he tune it out. Anyone with an officially defensible reason to be bothering him would have called the hotel. He's beholden to no one for 72 hours, and god damn it, he deserves it.

He opens the door before the knock can come again. Brad has his hands in his pockets and his weight heavily on one leg, like he was prepared to wait all night.

“This better be important,” Nate says.

Brad glasses his bare chest. The goosebumps are from the A/C meeting the remains of Nate's second shower. He knows what he looks like: too lean and exhausted, like he was dragged out of a hole. His ribs are visible from all angles. The skin of his feet is peeling, soggy and blistered-- his hands are peeling too, cracked from windburn and dryness. But he's clean, at least on the outside. The interior of his mouth still tastes like dust and cheap cigarettes, even though he's brushed his teeth three times in the past hour.

“Am I interrupting your solitude, sir?” Brad's in civvies, some bullshit tourist hoodie and jeans still creased from the storefront display. Nate is envious of the foam flip-flops. “Or is there some legitimate reason you haven't invited me in?”

He has a bottle of something amber and local in his hand. Nate's really not in the mood for bullshit. He communicates this clearly with his eyes.

“If it makes it easier,” Brad says, staring right back, “I can inform you that Person set his face on fire again.”

In the obviously empty room behind him, the A/C cycles on again. It finally settles over Nate fully, the feeling of inevitability he's been avoiding for weeks. He's not ready, but it's here anyway, and it's so heavy it _hurts_ , but it's over for him. He's getting out, and this is happening, and he's not going to stop either of those things.

“Then I'd better take your report, Sergeant.”

 

* * *

Brad lets him have the bottle without protest. Nate pulls on it deeply, then recoils, coughing. It's sloe gin, room temperature and disgustingly sweet. He places it on the dresser, uncapped.

“Well?” Nate asks, when no decisive action is forthcoming.

Brad's presence in the alien, enclosed space of the hotel room makes his skin itch. They've never been alone like this, and he can't read Brad. Whenever they fall into that thing they have, the silent communication, it's always Brad who initiates. Nate gets to choose whether he'll engage, how he'll engage, for how long. Brad always comes to him, opens for him, makes the offer-- if Nate wants to complain, or laugh, or remember what it means to do his job, Brad is there to make it happen. Brad is in awe. Brad could kiss him, sir. Brad trusts his judgment.

Here in Nate's hotel room, Brad offers him no assist. Maybe he can't. Maybe the door was as close as he could get.

Brad drags his eyes from Nate's feet to his face, lingers on the novel parts of him: thighs above the cut of the standard PT shorts where Nate's single, regulation tattoo rests. Stomach and flanks, pale like a corpse from spending weeks in his MOPP suit. Neck bare of shemagh, face unobstructed and wiped clean of dirt, and grime, and presumably command.

Nate realizes he's wrong. This is Brad making the opening. Brad is here, offering.

“Take your clothes off and lie down on your stomach,” he says, and Brad's thinnest, most crooked of smiles pulls slowly across one side of his face, an animal bearing it's teeth. He doesn't move.

Anger wells up in Nate like blood into a fresh cut, harsher than Brad's refusal to cooperate warrants. He's been packing useless, inefficient anger quietly away for months, and here it is, all of it all at once. He steps up into Brad's space, mouth centimeters from Brad's unflinching chin. He's never felt shorter than Brad. “I know you're not deaf, Sergeant. Strip and get on the fucking bed.”

“Yes sir,” Brad breathes, and Nate _feels_ him shiver, even under the loose hoodie.

Brad's elbows brush his chest when he peels the sweatshirt away, PT shirt tucked up inside of it. Brad's forehead bumps his collar when he bends to toe off the flip-flops and shake the jeans off a leg at a time. He's not wearing boxers.

Nate hisses through his teeth.

Naked, the Iceman radiates heat. Nate knows if he breathed deeply enough, their chests would touch. He keeps his breathing even and slow.

It's been so long since he was near someone like this. His mind is still in the desert. Like elevators and hot water and BLTs, this doesn't quite compute. The small, weak part of him wants to touch, and touch, and drown, but he doesn't know how to do that anymore.

“Get on the bed, Brad,” he snaps, not exaggerating the frustration at having to repeat himself. Why does Brad have to make this so fucking difficult? Why is Brad still needling at him, now that it's all over and it doesn't matter anymore? He knows Brad can tell he's leaving. Brad wouldn't be doing this unless Nate were leaving.

“Make me,” Brad rumbles, directly into Nate's ear, and-- _fuck that_. Nate's not playing this game.

He steps away but before his heel hits the floor Brad has him in an over-under bodylock and Nate's balance is gone. Brad push-pulls the both of them back into the room, heaves them onto the bed.

Nate's head and shoulders land on his open pack, scattering loose pens and balled-up shirts as Brad drags him up the mattress by his arms. Brad lets go just long enough to swipe the entire ensemble off the bed, and Nate hears his meager belongings hit the floor.

 _Fine_ , he thinks viciously, _fine_ , and then they're really grappling, Nate landing dirty, rapid elbow and knee strikes that drive Brad back far enough for Nate to twist out from under him and reverse their positions. He gets Brad on his side, then hammers at his lower back until he relents and rolls onto his stomach, Nate's left hand clenched tightly around the back of his neck. Nate knows he's being let off easy. The moment he broke Brad's clinch hold, Brad had won.

“Really, sir,” Brad gasps, forehead driven hard into the pillow, “the kidneys? What happened to keeping your honor clean?”

Nate doesn't point out that he's about to make them both worthy of a court martial. He can't think about it like that. “Shut the fuck up and stay there.”

Brad stretches luxuriously, as much as he's able with Nate sitting on his lower back and pinning him by the neck. Nate digs his fingernails in hard. Brad's hips twitch once, then again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, watching the top of the tattoo bunch and flex with the rhythmic motion, Brad's spine rubbing hard against his balls through his boxers. “You actually want it.”

Brad nods a little, face hidden in the bed. He says something, maybe 'yeah', but it's too muffled for Nate to make out. Maybe wasn't even a word. He's humping the bed like a bitch.

Nate bites his lips together. He has a responsibility to this man. “I don't have condoms. I'm clean, though. Are you?”

Brad lets out a laugh that sounds more like coughing, and Nate lets go of his neck. Brad turns his head to the side; he's wearing the same expression he always does when offering Nate tactical information. “Sir, you are in fact the Northern-most unit in this region. The AO has not been previously reconnoitered. So I'd say with confidence, yes, sir.”

“Brad--” he starts, leaning back, and Brad _growls_ , reaching back to blindly grab at one of Nate's folded knees, fingers gripping his thigh tight enough to bruise.

“Don't be a pussy, sir.”

“You're a very difficult person to deal with,” Nate informs him.

“So I'm told.” Brad grins. “Luckily, you're competent. For an officer.”

“Stow that,” Nate snaps automatically, knowing it's stupid to care, given what they're doing. What he's about to do. Brad stares back at him placidly, unapologetic. Iceman cool. Perfect and infuriating. Nate wants to fuck him until he can't walk.

Brad must see it in his face, because he smiles. It's a real smile, full and sweet. It makes Nate's chest pull tight like he's sprinting too hard.

He lays a hand between Brad's shoulders, a silent 'Stay, please', and climbs off the bed to remove his shorts and dig around in his pack. Brad does as he's told for a change.

Nate fingers him open with the Vaseline he's been using to treat his blistered feet. It's not ideal, but it's what he has on hand. Brad is so quiet during that it makes him nervous. When Nate looks up, his face is blank with concentration, like he's ranging a target in the generic ivory floor-to-ceiling curtains.

“I didn't know you did this,” Nate offers, because it's true. Part of him had figured this thing with Brad would fizzle out, like the last time he'd clicked with a guy who was so invested in being straight that he didn't really understand what that click meant. Probably he should have given Brad more credit, because he's an observant guy. But Brad rolling over for him like this-- this, he'd _never_ expected.

“I didn't know you had a tattoo.” Brad closes his eyes briefly, then glances back at him. Nate immediately wishes he'd look back at the wall. The gaze bores a hole in him. “And I _don_ ' _t_ do this.”

“Right,” Nate says, pressing his thumb against Brad's stretched rim, rubbing the skin over where his fingers pump smoothly, in and out. So slick and hot. He doesn't let himself think about how it's going to feel. “I'm just special.”

“Fishing for compliments is beneath you, sir.”

Brad's back is damp with sweat despite the A/C. When Nate puts his hand there his skin is cool. He can't resist pressing down hard, feeling how dense Brad is and reveling in how easily Brad gives way. All that strength and intelligence underneath him willingly. That smart mouth. He's never been this hard in his life, but Brad doesn't need to know that.

“Ready?” Nate asks, and Brad hums an affirmative, folds his arms around the pillow.

It takes them a few tries. Nate used too much Vaseline and Brad's skin is so slick, and his ass so tight, he can't push in easily. It should be funny but he's not in a laughing mood. All of this is too real-- the magnitude of this mistake he's making, the _actual crime_ he is committing, hovers around them like a specter. The tendon twitching in Brad's neck beneath his jaw indicates he's not having a great time, either. His hands are clenched so tightly in the pillowcase Nate can see every muscle of his arms in stark definition.

“We can do something else,” Nate hears himself say. It's probably a lie. If they can't pull this off Brad might never look him in the eye again.

“Are you a quitter, Lieutenant, or do you need illustrated instructions?” Brad grits out, red-faced. If Nate didn't know him better he'd say Brad looked humiliated. “No more of this prom night shit. Just stick it in.”

It's probably not a good thing that seeing Brad distressed makes Nate calmer. But that's what happens, and it happens instantly, like flipping a switch. Something settles in place inside him, and suddenly he's in control of this again, _actually_ in control, not just occupying a titular position that Brad bullied him into.

“Stop trying to antagonize me.” Nate lays a hand on Brad's sweaty flank, resists the urge to rub. Brad obviously doesn't want to be soothed. “Let's--” and he directs Brad onto his back.

Brad stares up at him, chest heaving. He's still hard, Nate notes with relief. Still wanting this.

“This isn't going how you planned, is it, Brad?”

“In keeping with the spirit of the invasion, sir, I made no plans at all.”

Nate smiles openly; this is his hotel room. He can if he wants to. “That's unlike you.”

“I'd hoped the Schlehenlikör would make plans for me, but you confiscated it,” Brad admits. His voice is low, almost a whisper. Like he's telling Nate a secret.

Nate kisses him. He'll let himself regret it later. He assumes Brad will complain, call it prom Queen bullshit, but instead Brad melts underneath him and opens, eagerly licking at Nate's teeth. This, Nate thinks. This is what was missing, and he's so very, very fucked. This is no longer the last hurrah. This is going to follow him home, just like the anger and the mortars and the squeal of tires on the bridge.

“Nate,” Brad mumbles, directly into his mouth. His hand finds Nate's dick between them-- slides off slickly, finds it again. “Nate.”

It takes all his concentration not to come immediately. Nate bites his lips together and conjugates irregular verbs, desperately trying not to listen for the tiny, almost imperceptible sounds Brad makes in his throat as he struggles to let Nate into his body.

Brad's bent nearly double on the bed, and as Nate polices his breathing ( _future, imperfect, aorist_ \--) he watches Brad pull his own leg up and back, thigh tight against his chest to let Nate closer. Brad's other leg is slung over Nate's hip, tensing and releasing as his toes curl, working in the natural rhythm Nate hasn't allowed himself to match.

“Fuuuck,” Brad breathes, sounding mystified. “Oh fuck, sir--”

Their foreheads knock together, hard enough that Nate winces. Brad doesn't flinch.

It's not like Nate's never been fucked. The procedure is not mysterious to him, but he can't stop watching Brad take it. He can't tell what's relief and what's pleasure, if that's even what Brad's experiencing. What Nate is experiencing approaches torture. He hasn't fucked in over half a year, and he managed a single, unsatisfying combat jack in a utility closet in Baghdad. This is going to be hard, quick, and unimpressive. Brad deserves better.

Then again, Brad doesn't know better, and he's been making do with his hand, too.

“Okay?” Nate gasps when he's almost completely inside and can think again. “Are you--”

Brad grips his elbows and shoves himself down awkwardly, leg punching Nate up into him as much as he can with no leverage. His upper lip is curled, teeth bared.

Nate screws into him helplessly, letting himself move. He's not in control anymore. Maybe all of that was bullshit, anyway. Brad's huge hand lands heavily on the back of Nate's skull, holds him tight, forehead to forehead, thumb scraping the line of Nate's buzz cut. His eyes are nearly black with how wide his pupils have dilated in the shadow Nate's body makes. Nate fucks him with tight little circles of his hips until he can't stand it anymore, and then he pulls out, sitting back on his heels. Brad grunts but lets him go, turning onto his stomach before Nate can ask.

He surprises himself with the violence of it, but it's right for them. The bruises he left earlier on Brad's back are blooming, drops of color across the canvas of his tattoo. He holds Brad down by the back of the neck again since he'd liked that, forces him into the bed as Nate strokes in and out of him. It's harder and deeper than it should be, but Brad doesn't fight or complain. Brad's letting out a low, constant moan into the sheets that Nate wants to bottle and keep by his bedside for lonely nights. He's making Brad sound like that, and no one else has ever done this to Brad.

He hears himself gasping filthy things about how hot Brad looks taking his dick, _you want this, look at you, take it so good,_ but he knows he's really the one who's begging. He doesn't need to see Brad's smile to know that Brad knows that, too. The curve of Brad's ear is fever-hot, his temple sweaty and red when Nate puts his mouth there, stumbles over the right words-- _wanted this for months, never thought, so_ _fucking_ _open for me, Brad,_ and he knows the moment Brad comes against the bed because it can't be anything else, the long body jolting beneath him like Brad's been shocked. Nate rides the smooth roll of Brad's hips as Brad lets go into the sheets, shuddering over and over.

Brad breathes heavily for a moment, and then he twists hard, knocking Nate's arm away and reaching behind him to grab Nate's tags and draw him close. Nate goes willingly, stunned by what he can see of Brad's profile like this, and the wet marks his mouth has made on the pillowcase. Brad forces their faces together, and Nate lets himself be kissed, sloppy and deep and an awkward angle. Brad's foot hooks over his calf, Brad's mouth says, _don't you dare stop,_ Brad's body pulls him in, and in, and in again.

His abs are going to hurt after this, and that's the last coherent thought he has, because Brad _s_ _queezes_ him and it's the best thing Nate has felt ever in his life, and he comes with Brad's teeth scraping a raw, wet line across his chin and his neck craned painfully under the force of Brad's hand and all the vulnerable parts of him caught, one way or another, in Brad's unwavering grip.

 

* * *

 

They silently negotiate Brad taking the first shower. Nate drags himself up to the head of the mattress and sits staring dumbly at the wet spot, listening to the water run. Brad hasn't closed the door.

He could go in there, he thinks, push Brad back into the clean gray tiles. Kiss Brad under the spray, touch him gently. Treat this like something it isn't, and can't be. He thinks Brad would let him.

Instead he wraps a damp towel back around his waist, strips the sheets, packs his rucksack together again and sets it upright against the wall. Brad emerges as Nate's refolding his shirts, drying his arms off with a towel that's too small. The bruises on his sides are florid, the signature of Nate's knees and fingers and elbows.

“Why is it that soap in these places always smells like something Mary Poppins puts on her pussy? It's like they all source from the same warehouse in Candyland.”

Nate shrugs. “After weeks of baby wipes, I'm happy to smell like daisies.”

“Clearly, seeing as you've secured the Taj Mahal for the night instead of racking with the rest of us.”

Nate takes that to mean Brad's not staying. He didn't really think he would. “My paycheck, my prerogative.”

“Why doesn't it surprise me that our gentleman officer, the sole educated man in the battalion, has a taste for the finer things in life? You should be careful, sir. Too much civilian indulgence might turn you soft.”

It's a dig, and even if Brad means it to be friendly, it stings. They haven't talked about Nate leaving because it's none of Brad's business. He's just pushing Nate's buttons, forcing them back into the familiar, safe dynamic where Brad toes over the line and Nate shuts him down. It shouldn't hurt as much as it does. It shouldn't have felt as good as it did to be inside of Brad. He probably _should_ be back at base, sleeping on a cot using his pack as a pillow, following all the rules and standards of behavior that are passively enforced just by virtue of being in a place full of other people who are also doing their jobs.

“We're on our way home,” Nate says, cinching tight the side straps on his pack. “You can't tell me you're not looking forward to your own indulgences.”

“Memory foam, salsa verde, and the marvels of refrigeration,” Brad concedes. “But there's always things I miss about combat. Things happen there that can't happen anywhere else.”

“Yeah.” He hears what's unsaid: just like this could only happen here, this in-between place.

Brad slides into his jeans almost gingerly. Nate watches him, the stiff way he's standing. Nate did that. It was real. “I figure you won't see much of us at Pendleton, sir, but if you're ever feeling nostalgic, call. We can get a beer.”

“'We' being the platoon?”

Brad pauses in retrieving his hoodie from the floor to give Nate a disgruntled look. As usual, Nate looks away first, but there's nothing else to look at but the bare bed, bizarre and accusing.

“You know where to find me,” Brad says flatly, over the sound of the zipper. Nate doesn't think he means it as a stock inanity, a passive-aggressive 'see you whenever'. It's just an observation. Nate always knows how to find him, and Brad is always willing to be found. “You can keep the liquor. It's shit anyway.”

Nate already misses the jump and twitch of tendons under his palm, the eager violence of Brad's mouth. It's already a memory.

“Do you know the etymology of the word 'nostalgia'?” he asks “It's two Greek roots. A _nostos_ is a homecoming journey, especially the return home of a hero or warrior. _The Odyssey_ is Odysseus' _nostos_ at the end of the Trojan war. There are _Nostoi_ recording the journeys of other Trojan heroes attested in the literature, but they are lost except for fragments.”

Brad pauses at the door, watching him expectantly.

“'Algia' is from _algos_ ,” Nate says. “It means 'pain'. So nostalgia is 'homecoming pain'. We use it to mean a longing for home, but it could just as easily be the opposite: a homecoming that is painful.”

“Maybe it's both,” Brad offers, hand on the knob. “The Greeks knew a lot about war.”

“Enough that we're still reading about them.” He licks his lips. “Enjoy the rest of your 72, Brad. I'll see you at formation.”

Brad grins at him, slow and easy. “Enjoy your three-star room, sir. I'd say you can charge me for the linens, but you get paid more than I do.”

The door closes with a mechanized click, sealing Nate in silence again, and he goes to take his third shower since Baghdad.


End file.
